


An Advantage, Taken

by Moonlitdark



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Break Up, Drunk Sex, Drunkenness, Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M, Manipulation, impaired judgment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-13 16:28:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28531461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonlitdark/pseuds/Moonlitdark
Summary: Harry is extremely drunk following his and Draco's latest argument. Goyle sees an easy opportunity.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Gregory Goyle/Harry Potter
Kudos: 23





	An Advantage, Taken

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted a long time ago on Livejournal. So if it seems familiar, you've probably read it before.
> 
> This is not a happy story. Please take note of the tags.

Arguments brewed and exploded, it was an accepted way of life, but this time had definitely been worse. It had all happened too fast; Harry wasn’t sure exactly what had gone wrong. 

Sniffing into the bottle, he wallowed in melodramatic sorrow. But perhaps a little melodrama was acceptable, given the fact that the one presence which had made this building his home had vowed never to return to it. There should’ve been more time, more opportunity for pleading. But even if he’d recognised that pleading was required, Harry knew he would’ve still failed. Harry wasn’t the pleading sort, and Draco not the type to respond to such feeble traits. 

He pondered calling on a friend, wanted to be held, reassured, but didn’t desire to relate his tale of woe, not this soon. Therefore, Harry had spent the last few hours very productively. Getting drunk was a valid reaction to this evening’s events. “Absolutely,” he agreed aloud with himself. Perfectly reasonable. If Draco didn’t want to be here, then Harry would work on attaining a suitable state of inebriation, so that he might not notice the absence. On hindsight, that didn’t sound exceptionally logical to Harry, but perhaps he hadn’t consumed enough alcohol yet.

No more arguments - now that was a good thing, a plus point. A wonderful advantage of not having a nagging Slytherin around the house anymore. Peace, yes it would be serene. So, he’d be lonely. He’d get over it. There wouldn’t be anyone to share the day’s events with, anyone to hold him during the sleepless nights, but he would easily adjust. 

But Harry didn’t want to adjust. He wanted to run from the building, hunt Draco down and beseech him to come home. 

“Draco doesn’t want to come home,” Harry murmured to the empty room. 

More drink, that’s what he needed. If he drank an adequate amount, maybe he wouldn’t even wake up to the empty bed. Harry scoffed quietly, of course he would. That’s what he did, that’s what he was best at, facing adverse situations and finding a way through. Battling against the odds and prioritising what was best for others. And if Draco felt that it was in his best interests to leave, then Harry wouldn’t argue. There had been enough disagreements. It was exhausting.

A sharp knock shattered the peace and Harry’s heart leapt, until a second later he remembered that Draco wouldn’t knock. Draco had a key. Or he would floo or… something else magical that Harry’s foggy brain couldn’t recollect the term for. Besides, it hadn’t been Draco’s knock, even if the man didn’t live here and possess a key. But Draco _didn’t_ live here now, he reminded himself.

Harry knew that he should really be getting up to answer the door, but he suspected that standing would be a difficult undertaking. Instead, he utilised what seemed to be a more straightforward option, yelling, “’C’m in!” before realising that inviting unknown people into his home probably wasn’t very safe. But since he intended to remain unfirmly seated, it was too late to worry.

The door creaked open and noises of approach grew nearer from down the short hall.

“You okay?” was the strangest question Harry had heard in quite a while. Well, not the question so much as the person who had uttered it.

Gregory Goyle, lackey extraordinaire, stood over Harry looking… well, almost concerned.

“I’m all right… I suppose,” Harry answered cautiously, squinting up.

Goyle plopped his considerable bulk down on the furry rug, almost sitting on Harry’s hand in the process.

“What happened this time?”

“I think… we broke up,” Harry admitted, presuming that Draco’s friend had at least an inkling of what had transpired, or wouldn’t be here.

“Maybe it’s for the best. Whatcha drinking?”

Harry examined the bottle in his hand, frowning. “Umm… whisky.” Unfortunately, he appeared to have run out of vodka.

“Got room for one more?”

“One more what?”

“Guest. Person to drink with.”

Thinking that the question should’ve been asked _before_ Goyle had taken the bottle and helped himself to a swig, Harry nodded, curious.

“Good stuff. You two have another fight?”

“Who two?”

“You and Draco.” 

When simple queries perplexed him, it was usually an indication that Harry should go and lie down in a darkened room. He nodded.

“What’d he do now?”

“What makes you think he did anything?” Harry growled, oddly defensive.

“’Cos he usually does.”

“So do I.”

“I’ve noticed that,” Goyle nodded. “Noticed a lot of things, actually.”

“Like what?”

“Like you two don’t seem to be the happy lovebirds anymore.”

“Relationships are like that.” So he had been told, anyhow. “They move on… or something.”

“Why would you want to be with him? He’s a stuck-up, self-absorbed prick.”

“And he’s your friend.”

“Yeah,” Goyle shrugged, “but that doesn’t mean he isn’t an arsehole.”

Reviewing recent events, Harry could see Goyle’s point. He was still reflecting when the bottle waved under his nose. 

“Here, have another drink.”

“I think…” Harry hiccupped, “I’m drunk enough.”

“I don’t think so, not yet. Not quite.”

“You trying to get me pissed?”

“You're _already_ pissed, Potter. Have another drink.”

“’Kay.” Harry took the bottle, glad for the return of a solid object to hold onto, but didn’t raise the rim to his lips. “He’s really gone, isn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Isn’t coming back.”

Goyle was seated so close that all it would take was a slight lean to the left for Harry to rest his weary head on a round shoulder. His cheek actually touched the material of the robe before he snapped his neck back, shocked with himself. Goyle didn’t comment, merely nudged the base of the bottle. “Drink up.”

Mumbling a reply even he didn’t understand, Harry tipped the bottle up, gulping down several mouthfuls. It felt good, soothing.

“I never really thought he deserved you, anyway.”

Nearly choking, Harry spluttered, “What?”

“Nothing. What were we saying about Draco?”

“That he’s a stuck-up, self-abshorbed prick…” slurred Harry.

“That’s right.”

Shaking his head adamantly caused the room to spin sickeningly. Finding a point to fix his gaze on and slow the spin, Harry gasped, “But he loves me.” 

“Draco doesn’t love anyone but himself.”

A wary nod this time. “Yes, he does. Loves me. I think.”

“You think?”

“I did. He did. Not so much, now.” A mistimed gesture lost Harry his grip on the bottle and it thudded down and rolled, spilling amber liquid in its wake. He wanted it back, but it was out of reach. Maybe he could ask Goyle to help. Or possibly he’d just go to sleep. Right here.

“That isn’t good enough, Harry.”

“It isn’t?” Harry asked, puzzled as to why Goyle would be concerned over his sleeping arrangements. 

“No. If he doesn’t love you, then he should stay away.” Oh, _that_.

“All I ever really wanted was someone to be there… hold me, won’t be anyone now,” he babbled. 

“Well, I can do that.”

“Do what?” Harry’s mind was drifting, muddled, craving rest.

“You need another drink.”

“No… had enough.”

“Well, let’s see…”

Broad hands rested on Harry’s shoulders, kneading. He could feel the tension melting from his muscles (though the vodka and whisky had certainly assisted with that) and let his torso fall forward, resting his head against his knees. 

The massage felt amazingly relaxing; fingers working down his back and sides in united, symmetrical movements. He had just begun to drift into calmness when Goyle tugged gently at his shoulders to guide him backwards, lowering him to the floor. Harry lay back, let the warmth of the rug support him, surprised when a solid chest settled on his. Wider, heavier than he was accustomed to, but not unpleasant. The fog of alcohol served as a cushion, a pleasant misty barrier between him and a rash action he could see but was too tired to prevent. But beneath the trail of kisses it didn’t feel rash, didn’t seem unwise. It would just happen, whatever this was. Maybe it was nothing and the limbs exploring lower would leave him alone to sleep and cultivate his hangover. Or maybe they wouldn’t. Maybe he wouldn’t want them to.

What harm was there in accepting comfort, even if it would be nothing more? What was left to stop him, hold him back? Why shouldn’t he enjoy what little was offered to him…

Hoping he could pretend that the attentive hands belonged to another man, Harry let his eyes close, but it was too great a falsehood to maintain, even through the haze of alcohol. But what was more surprising was that he didn’t care. No, that was wrong. Harry _did_ care that the attentions causing his heartbeat to thump harder weren’t Draco’s; he just wasn’t as upset about it as he thought he’d be.

No-one else had ever made love to him, only Draco. But this was different, pleasure without depth. It would just be a release, temporary solace. The weight was denser, the touch coarser, clumsier. But the delicate kisses were lighter, more careful than Draco’s had been. Tentative, barely-there breaths on his neck, along his collarbone, down his chest, avoiding nipples, choosing to bathe his skin with warm breath and light moisture, down to his navel. Harry recalled wearing a shirt, wasn’t sure when it had been removed. But the unbuckling of Harry’s belt didn’t go unnoticed. The clink of metal, the tugging down of his zip didn’t escape his attention. 

A small emotion, a pang similar to guilt threatened to rise, but didn’t make its way completely through the haze. Harry kept his lids down, felt a tongue on his half-erect penis, lips encasing, moisture coating the shaft. He could cease this with a word or wandless spell but didn’t see the point. Wasn’t it better just to accept the sensation, allow it to overwhelm his grief? The rhythm was wrong, unfamiliar, but his cock hardened regardless. His hips tried to move (to seek more warmth or slide to freedom, Harry didn’t know which), but the option was taken from him as the mouth soon retreated of its own accord.

The removal of his lower garments was conducted without protest; the parting of thighs and penetration of fingers wasn’t stopped. Not even when what felt surely like four digits caused Harry to gasp in pain. He should sit up and stop this before it went any further, but neither of these things occurred.

Some distant noise registered faintly, a click or a shuffle, an intake of breath, but Harry was too exhausted to investigate the source. A rough grasp lifted his hips; his bum left the rug and very quickly, too quickly, a thick penis, unconnected in Harry’s mind, shoved past the tender ring of muscle. Harry couldn’t remember if lubricant had been applied, but the rough passage into his body indicated the negative. Draco always used lubricant, always took time and care to prepare, never caused pain, but this wasn’t Draco. Would never be Draco again.

Every thrust pulled and scraped flesh, burned. His head swam with each jostle, but he didn’t have the strength to object. He wasn’t even certain if he was still erect. The pounding of his heart had moved to his head, dominating all else, and the kiss placed to his scar left him awash with nausea. Only Draco was supposed to do that. Remaining motionless under the relentless activity, wondering if the man above him even noticed that he wasn’t reciprocating, he waited for Goyle’s orgasm. 

Thankfully, it wasn’t long in coming.

The diminished cock pulled out; the weight eased. Dropping his legs to lie askew as a sweaty, muscular form moulded against his bare side, Harry absently imagined that there might be tiny droplets of blood seeping onto the rug. 

“You didn’t come,” muttered Goyle, his voice low. The statement of an obvious fact wasn’t worth the effort it would take Harry to reply. “Shame, but I don’t suppose it mattered.”

Pressing a palm to his forehead in a vain attempt to push out the growing pain, Harry peered through slitted eyes in what he hoped was a questioning manner.

“I’m sure that he saw enough,” Goyle added, not creating a better level of understanding.

Harry strained to speak. “Who… did?”

“Draco. He didn’t look very happy with us. He definitely won’t be back this time.”

The meaning wasn’t becoming any clearer to Harry. “I – I don’t…”

“You both needed a reason to move on. I’ve given you that.”

Comprehension of an awful truth tried to penetrate Harry’s tired mind, but he couldn’t focus. Prying his eyelids apart, he was confused by Goyle’s expression: sated and flushed, with a tinge of satisfaction or was it regret? Perhaps it was, he didn’t know. It didn’t really matter. But the feeling of something bad, something irrevocable, was overwhelming despite his disorientation. 

“Go to sleep,” Goyle whispered as a calloused finger stroked Harry’s strangely wet cheek. “Draco’s gone, Harry. But I’ll still be here in the morning.”


End file.
